


we'll cross that bridge when we get to it (we're here)

by Waywarder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Worship, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24465484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: “Like your nose,” Crowley suddenly muttered that evening. He hadn’t meant to do it. He was just drunk and happy and looking at Aziraphale’s face, and he very nearly clapped his hand over his big, stupid mouth, but… No.He did like Aziraphale’s nose and it was past time he said something about it.A little post-almost-Apocalypse fluff for GO Events Server Fic Prom!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 144
Collections: Promptposal





	we'll cross that bridge when we get to it (we're here)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CelestialArcadia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialArcadia/gifts).



> Thank you for reading! And thank you for joining me at Junior Prom, Celestial!!

The Apocalypse had come (sort of) and gone, and so Aziraphale and Crowley once again found themselves comfortably cozied up at the bookshop after hours, drinking and chattering long long into the night.

It had gone like this since the Almost-End, really. They each of them reveled in the possibility of each new day, sometimes together and sometimes apart. But every night they found one another, and they drank and chattered and bickered and sometimes Crowley got himself home and sometimes he fell asleep on the bookshop’s sofa and woke up to the scents of Aziraphale and of fresh coffee mingling in the air.

And when I say they “chattered,” well, it was just that. Chatter. Small, fond, meaningless, ultimately. A bridge lay ahead of them, wide and vast, and so far, neither of them had dared lead the other one over it. 

No matter how certain he was that the world on the other side of that bridge was all he’d ever dreamed of. 

It was finally Crowley who offered his hand first. (Again.)

“Like your nose,” Crowley suddenly muttered that evening. He hadn’t meant to do it. He was just drunk and happy and looking at Aziraphale’s face, and he very nearly clapped his hand over his big, stupid mouth, but… No.

He _did_ like Aziraphale’s nose and it was past time he said something about it.

Aziraphale didn’t seem to have heard him properly because the angel just asked, “What was that, my dear?”

Crowley swayed to his feet, liquid courage and years of appreciation flooding his veins. 

“I like your nose, angel,” Crowley repeated, this time gesturing with his wine glass in the vague direction of said-nose. Aziraphale went a little cross-eyed as he tried to survey the nose in question, and damn, he was adorable.

“Oh, it’s just a nose,” Aziraphale blushed.

“No,” Crowley protested, stumbling a bit closer to Aziraphale. “No, it’s not. It’s wonderful. It’s magnificent. It’s all cute and turned up, and _how does it do that?_ ”

Aziraphale blushed more deeply, but he was smiling that small, fond smile of his. That particular smile which (Crowley’s heart twisted in on itself) Crowley had only ever seen directed at himself. 

“Well, I like your nose as well,” Aziraphale stood up himself now, a little wobbly but determined. 

“And I like your hands!” Crowley barrelled over him. Giving compliments was one thing. Receiving compliments was quite another thing. 

“What about my hands?” Aziraphale asked, looking at said-hands now in a little bit of tipsy alarm. “They’re just hands, Crowley!”

“No!” Crowley bellowed. “No, Aziraphale, you’re not getting it. Let me show you-”

And he crossed the room to take Aziraphale’s hands in his own. He held them up before the angel’s wide-eyed face as though that alone should have been enough evidence.

“See?” Crowley implored. “Do you see how nice they are? They’re all soft and stuff.”

“Well, what about your hands?” Aziraphale was staring down at their joined hands now.

And, again, Crowley tried to wriggle out of it. Tried to divert all the attention back to the beautiful angel before him, but Aziraphale was really quite determined now, and good luck getting in the way of a really quite determined Aziraphale.

“I’ve always admired your fingers, you know, Crowley.” To prove his point, Aziraphale laced his own fingers through Crowley’s. 

They realized at the same time that they were actually holding hands, and their eyes darted up to one another’s in a moment of hopeful panic.

Because they’d been here once before, of course. But… well, maybe things had been different on the bus. Maybe that had been a One Time Special Circumstance.

Because now there was no world on the verge of ending, there were no threats from Heaven or Hell to fight, no riddles to solve, no faces to swap. Just an angel and a demon, each terribly stupid sometimes, standing hand in hand in a bookshop in SoHo.

“Sober up?” Aziraphale whispered. 

Crowley nodded, regretting every foolish word that had ever come out of his foolish mouth.

They paused to will the copious amounts of alcohol out of their systems, not letting go of the other’s hands the entire time. 

No Armageddon. No alcohol.

No excuses.

“I do like your fingers,” Aziraphale broke the silence. “They’re so long and lovely.”

“I like your hair,” Crowley countered, a bit of red creeping over his face at Aziraphale’s compliment. “I don’t ever know the right words for it. It’s all… white and fluffy. ‘S like a cloud, I guess. But better? What’s better than a cloud?”

Aziraphale laughed softly at the comparison. “I like your legs. The way they carry you, my dear. I’ve never seen anyone walk like you.”

“Well, I like your arms. They’re all soft and strong at the same time. That shouldn’t be allowed.”

“Oh, well, then what about your hips, my dear? I can remember several times throughout history when they’ve nearly caused a riot!”

It was Crowley’s turn to laugh. It was Aziraphale’s turn to be brave.

“I also like your eyes,” he said, softly. “I’ve always understood why you covered them up, Crowley, and I would never want to disrespect your boundaries. But I do think you have the most beautiful eyes on Earth, and I do so like to see them.”

Crowley snatched the glasses off of his face immediately, only regretting that he had to let go of Aziraphale’s hand in order to do so.

“I like your lips,” Crowley confessed, and his voice was lower than he’d meant it to be. “They’re so pink and pretty.”

Without their hands clasped together in between them, they had ended up nearly chest to chest, staring into each other’s free and open eyes. 

_Is it time? Will you come with me, darling?_

“Aziraphale,” Crowley began, relishing as always the taste of that name on his tongue.

“Yes, dear?”

“I have something stupid to say.”

“Go on, then.”

“I don’t like you.”

And if Aziraphale had not been as clever as he was, he would have been terribly hurt by this statement. But he was, as you know, terribly clever, so he saw where this was going right away.

“No, Crowley, I don’t suppose I like you either.”

Crowley brought a hand up to the side of Aziraphale’s face.

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes, dear?”

“I love you.”

And those perfect lips that Crowley liked broke out into a radiant smile.

“I love you, too, Crowley. Oh, my dear, so very much.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Please.”

So Crowley did. 

He kissed the lips that he loved so much. He kissed the hands that he’d always admired. Kissed the cheeks and the forehead and the nose and…

Well, it was a long evening, shall we say?

And the next morning Crowley awoke in a sea of tartan sheets to the scents of Aziraphale and of fresh coffee mingling in the air.


End file.
